thedustwillsing:

I refuse to write a poem about sunsets
because they are overdone -
quite cliche, in fact.

There is no room in literature
for another stanza about purple
slipping into the skyline

Or about the way sunlight dissolves
across the bending of a horizon,
how orange soaks into clouds.

I will not romanticize the thought
of one more day slipping away
in a brilliant show of light

or how beautiful it is to know
that I am now one day close
to that final day 

thedustwillsing:

Drowning in the waters of Lethe
my mind slips into a strange color
not of black, as many would claim,
but a soft dingy white
like the pages of an old journal
whose letters have been scrubbed away
leaving only the strain of forgetting
every scene of my life 
that has woven me together.

My first house dissolves 
against a white canvas,
the name of the first girl I kissed
is slipping deeper into the river,
books I’ve read are fading
into empty pages,
and the complexion of your lips
in the morning time
are turning so pale
as they descend
into lethe.

I want to know your love again
but my mind is sleeping
at the bottom of a river
whose name I have forgotten. 

thedustwillsing:

Tonight I slip into the black flesh
Of the ocean at midnight.
Falling deep into the rhythmic thrust
Of water collapsing into sand
As A million miles of midnight
Tries to lose itself in the tide.

Here the ocean is darkness;
Ivory glass dancing across the surface.
A thousand miles away this…

thedustwillsing:

The reason I have not been posting many poems on this blog is because I am starting to look to publish.  Many publishers won’t take submissions that have been posted on the internet.  With that said, I am going to begin posting again soon, and I need a few people who don’t mind critiquing my work.  If you are interested in critiquing I would need your email because I want people to critique the poems I am considering for publishing, and once again I can not post them on here.  

http://thedustwillsing.tumblr.com/ask

Message me if you are interested in critiques

“Try to swallow them without gagging this time” he said to her in a soft, almost romantic, tone.  She wasn’t use to taking pills and he knew that, so he tried to calm her down.  Tonight she would be taking fifty.

“Baby, are you sure about this?” her eyes held the color of fear as she asked this, they had been discussing this date for months now but he always thought she would back out the last minute.  He now knew she wouldn’t; she was scared but determined, he saw it in her emerald eyes of fear.

“Bunny” a pet name he called her when he needed her to feel loved “you know the only way we can be together forever is to do this.  We’re young and happy; we have to leave it this way.  Time will only pull at our skin and try to separate us, we have to leave time behind.”  She looked into his eyes for a moment trying to find where color ends and white begins.  He wondered if she might actually decide against this – and it was such a romantic evening.  He was about to open his mouth to tell her something about how the moon would remember them, or other romantic clichés like that, but she popped a pill before he could say anything.

The rest of the night consisted of kissing then popping a pill and then kissing some more.  Her words were beginning to slur as she said something about feeling terrible.

“Bunny, we only have one left and then we can go to sleep and be next to each other for eternity.  Take the last one for me.”  She looked at him with crimson cracked eyes and downed one last pill of hydrocodone  and he took one more sugar pill, smiling at her as she closed her eyes.

The gun felt cold on his fingers; this was it.  This was the adrenaline raced nightmare he had always feared, the reason he secretly brought a gun to school.  He was paranoid, but today his paranoia might save his life as well as his class mates.  There was a girl in the corner crying, the sobs were loud, loud enough for someone to hear.

“I need you to be quiet” He tried to tell her in a gentle manner, but it came out cold and sharp.  She quickly muffled her tears.  She was very beautiful in her vulnerability; the tears in her eyes made the blue stand out even more than normal.  He was going to save her.  Stop it.  You need to focus on the threat, not on the girl. It was funny the way your mind wanders in extreme situations like this.  He looked at the clock; 1:43.  It had been twenty minutes since they had announced there was a gunman in the school and had put the school on lock down.  Since then they have been locked in this classroom, he decided to get his gun (paranoid my ass) and protect his classmates.  Only twenty minutes? It seems like three hours, it seems like three minutes, is time relative anymore.

“Focus dammit” He had to say it out loud to snap back into reality.   He needed to be here, now, with the adrenaline pulsing through his finger that was a hairline on a trigger.  Be ready or die.  That’s a cool quote, is it from a movie? Focus, focus, foc… the door handle moved.  His pupils dilated as he tried to steady the gun. 

“Patrick, this is the police, we need you to drop your weapon” for a second he thought about it.  He almost yelled back about it being safe in the room, but then he realized, it wasn’t the police.  This guy, this shooter was trying to catch him off-guard.

“I know you aren’t the police!”  His voice cracked as he yelled, but he tried his best to sound intimidating.  “I swear to God if you come in this door I’ll fucking kill you.”

There was silence on the other side, silence in the classroom, except the girl was starting to cry again.  “Hey” he looked at her as gentle as possible “I promise it will be”

The door flew open.  Patrick turned and steadied his gun.  He saw the dark bullet proof vest on top of a royal blue uniform, heard screaming, something exploded, he saw black.  A deep, infinite black.

Her fingernails dug into his left arm and drew a little blood.  Dylan’s arm tingled a little bit, but it didn’t hurt at all.  This should hurt, he thought to himself, but adrenaline and the sound of a muffled scream drowned out the voice.  How long had the pillow been over her face?
Seconds?
Minutes?
Hours?
Days?
It felt like forever; she should be dead by now.  He pressed the pillow down harder; maybe he was doing it wrong.  Finally the fingernails that were dug into his forearm released, and the body went limp.  He held the pillow a little longer to make sure the job was done.  Once he was sure the task was complete he removed the pillow to look at the girl he had killed, the life he had taken.  She had platinum blonde hair and very pale skin.  He looked at her face, or where one should be, but it was just skin.   Soft, smooth skin in place of where her nose and eyes should be.  The only proof of a face was the girl’s mouth, no lips, only sharp pointed teeth that looked like the mouth of Satan.  Dylan started to stand up, but as he did the body came to life.  The girls arms flailed wildly and Satan’s teeth buried themselves into his neck.
This should hurt.
He tried to scream but nothing escaped his mouth except a small amount of crimson spit. 
            Dylan jerked awake, throwing his hand to the side of his neck.  No blood, it was just a dream.  Sweat drenched the white shirt he was sleeping in, and his body was shaking from coldness.  This was the second day in a row he woke in a cold sweat, and he felt that there would be many more days to follow. 
It was just a dream.
The faceless devil-toothed girl was just a dream, but killing a girl wasn’t.  He was a murderer.  Dylan reached into the back pocket of his jeans,
I fell asleep with my clothes on.
and pulled out a card that the lady, Dr. Wellington, had given him. 

Dr. Danielle Wellington
Psychiatrist, PHD
(907)452-1784

He stared at the card for a long time.  It was simple and professional; stating all the information you would need and leaving the rest of the card a pale, pasty white.
Like the girls face.
He shoved the card back into his pocket.  The last thing he needed now was a psychiatrist picking at his brain.  What would she find? Whatever it was, Dylan knew it wouldn’t be good.  She would probably prescribe a lobotomy. 
            At the thought of this Dylan noticed the dull ringing in the front of his brain.  He fished a new pack out of his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.  He went to light it, but stopped.
I can’t smoke in the apartment.
Why not?  He wasn’t sure of the reason, but opted not to light it anyway.
I should get to The Coffee House.
He headed out the door and began walking towards downtown.

Dylan was still shook up; he kept trying to convince himself that he dreamt murdering that girl, but the more he told himself that the less he actually believed it.  He had blood on his hands and all he could do now is get his coffee and try to sort his thoughts.
“A little early today aren’t we Dylan?” The tall college kid asked.  He was wearing his best, welcome to The Coffee House, I’m happy to be alive, face, but the bags under his eyes were betraying him.  Sam had only worked here for a few months, but Dylan liked the guy.  He was a hard worker putting in forty hours a week at work and 20 hours at school.  He also always had Dylan’s coffee ready before Dylan could even reach the counter. 
“Here is your large white mocha with an extra shot.”  Dylan handed him a five dollar bill and told him to keep the change.  Now he could drink his coffee and clear his head of all the questions that were haunting him on the walk over.
How drunk was I?
Why did I kill her?
What was her name?
“Dylan is that you?”  The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but when he turned around he saw a shorter Hispanic lady.  She was very attractive with olive colored skin and a tight curvy build; she was way too attractive for Dylan to forget her. 
She’s a cop.   You have to make a run for it.
Dylan instantly realized how stupid this thought was.  Even if he was going to get caught it wouldn’t be this fast.  Plus, he couldn’t imagine this lady in a cop uniform unless it was one of those slutty, leather ones only seen in cheap porn films.  No, she wasn’t a cop, but Dylan still kept his guard up. 
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Are you serious?” The way her polite smile twisted downward rather quickly informed Dylan that he’d offended her.  “I’m Dr. Wellington.” For some reason he couldn’t imagine her in Dr. Scrubs either. 
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t ring a bell.”  With that comment her face seemed to change from offended to concerned.
“I was your psychiatrist.  We used to have a session every Thursday at three.”  Dylan couldn’t remember ever going to see a psychiatrist, either his memory was failing him or the world decided to play some sick joke on him today.  “Look, I don’t have much time today.  I have to get back to Chris, but here’s my card.”  She motioned her head to a guy sitting at a table alone. 
“Is that your boy friend?”  He wasn’t sure how he could worry about her relationship status at a time like this, but, like almost every other action today, it came instinctively.
“No.  He’s just a guy I work with”- there was a slightly uncomfortable pause- “but seriously here is my card.  Give me a call.”  Dylan took the card from her.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I need a psychiatrist right now.”
“Please just think about it.”  And with that she left to join the man at the table.

“I’m just saying, many people find that Freud’s work is…” Danielle began to tune the man out.  He was a little older than she, good looking, and smart, but he couldn’t talk about anything besides psychology.  She should have expected that when she agreed to a date with another psychiatrist, but other than her patients she only met people who were in her field.  They were all the same, way too arrogant about the doctor placed in front of their last name.  “Wouldn’t you agree?”  She thought about telling him she hadn’t listened to a damn word he just said, but decided to go with a,
“Yes, I would have to agree.”

“I’m glad you are rational enough to think that way.  Too many psychiatrists in the field today…” She stopped paying attention once again, but now her focus was on the man who just walked into the coffee shop.  He was younger and very handsome in a tortured soul sort of way.  He looked like a patient she used to see.  Could it be?  He had gotten a bit thinner and now had a 5 o’clock shadow, but it had to be him.  

“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” Danielle snapped back into conversation. 
“I’m sorry, it’s just, I think that guy was one of my former patients.”  She felt childish giving him excuses, but it was nicer than telling him that he bored her.  “I’m sorry, but I have to go talk to him.”  If this really was Dylan she wanted to make sure that he was doing ok.  It had been eight months since their last session, and he had left in anger
.
            Dylan was avoidant, which simply meant he tried to block out bad memories, but the difficult thing with him was that he actually accomplished the task, or at least seemed to.  He had started coming to her for therapy after his fiancé had passed away; his first session was exactly two weeks after the funeral, and by that time he had forgotten her name, her face, and basically any memory of her existence.  Danielle had finally brought a picture of her to a session and tried to tell him that this girl was once his fiancée.  That session ended with Dylan yelling something about bull shit and throwing her framed Doctorate Degree across the room.  She hadn’t seen him since then.  It was a heartbreaking session, but it taught Danielle to never push things too hard.  It had also taught her to keep her degree at home.

Cold. Hot. His senses betrayed him as he woke up gasping for air in a cold sweat.  His lungs were tight, probably from the cigarette tar clogging them.  He looked around the room, studying his surroundings: lower end studio apartment, brown bed sheets that hung over the two windows like makeshift curtains gave the room a dim, dusty look.  Dylan’s eyes hadn’t adjusted yet, but there was a little sunlight pouring in from the moth holes on the improvised curtains.  To his right he could see the disheveled kitchen with silhouettes of what were probably pizza boxes.
Where am I?
            Last night wasn’t as much of a blur to him as it was a black abyss.  He couldn’t remember attending any parties, but the pounding in his head informed him that he drank more than his fair share last night.  He glanced around the room again and for the first time realized he was sleeping on a mattress only a couple of inches off the floor.  Someone was in bed with him; his eyes were beginning to adjust now and he saw the outline of a body under the blanket and the left ass cheek of a girl uncovered.  Realizing he was also naked, he began looking around for his clothes.  They were in a pile about four feet away from the bed.  He got up slowly, not to wake the naked girl lying next to him.  Who was she?  As he began to dress himself he tried to find pieces of the night before hidden in the back of his mind, nothing; a black abyss where his memory should be.  As he slid on his jeans he patted the left pocket: at least his cigarettes were still there.  Hopefully there were a few left in the pack. 
            Dylan found his shirt buried under a pair of the unidentified girl’s underwear; it was a blank white t-shirt.  He definitely was not dressed for a party, but then again he never really got dressed up anymore.  Dylan pulled the shirt on and headed for the door.  His conscious told him he should stick around until the girl woke so he could have breakfast with her, or coffee, or whatever is appropriate after a one night stand, but he didn’t even know her name.  How would that conversation go?

“Good morning”
“Good morning” she would reply rubbing her eyes.  He had to imagine what her face would look like, because he realized he had no idea what this girl looked like except for half of her ass. “Last night was great.”
“Was it?  I don’t really remember much.  Oh, by the way, what is your name again?”

            He definitely had to leave before she woke up.  The front door was unlocked; it moaned the way all doors do when you are trying to be silent.  He glanced at the girl; she hadn’t moved, sleeping like a rock.  He opened the door and stepped onto the second story patio of some trashy apartments.

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